Page 46 of ICED
When we get back to their flat, Maya hesitates at the door. Lila’s already scampered inside, dragging her stuffed unicorn by the horn.
“You want to come in?” she asks. Casual. But her voice has that edge again, the one that says she’s not sure if it’s safe to want things.
I smile. “Only if you’ve got emergency glitter for those cupcakes I was promised.”
Her laugh slips out before she can stop it. “We’ll see.”
Inside, the place is warm. Smells like toast and something sweeter underneath it all. Maya disappears into the kitchen to turn on the kettle while Lila rifles through a drawer full of baking supplies.
I crouch beside her. “All right, Chef. What’s the plan?”
She hands me a whisk with great ceremony. “You stir while I make the sparkles.”
“Division of labour. I like it.”
We bake cupcakes, or more accurately, we launch into glitter chaos. At some point I end up with a unicorn sticker on my forehead, and Lila declares me her assistant forever.
Maya leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching us. There’s a smile playing on her lips, but she’s still scanning. Still guarding.
Still braver than anyone I know.
“Does it always look like this after you bake?” I ask her as I wipe flour off my hoodie.
“No,” she says, deadpan. “Usually it’s worse.”
We drink tea while the cupcakes cool, sitting shoulder to shoulder on her worn sofa. Lila drapes herself across our laps, half-asleep, cupcake frosting in her hair. I brush a sticky curloff her forehead and catch Maya watching me again, like she’s trying to make sense of me. Or of herself.
“I’ve got training in the morning,” I say quietly.
“Early?”
“Early enough. But I can come by after. If you want.”
She’s silent for a beat. Then she says, “You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
Maya looks at me then. As though she’s weighing everything she’s seen, heard, felt. Her voice is soft when it comes.
“You make it easy to want things again.”
My chest tightens. I don’t know what to say to that, except for, “Same.”
I want to kiss her.
The thought hits me so hard I have to grip my own mug to keep from acting on it.
Not yet.
She’s letting me in. Carefully. Slowly. And if I rush this, if I mess it up, I’ll lose not just her, but the way she trusts me with Lila. The way her laugh finds me in quiet moments. The way her hand lingers when I touch her wrist.
So, I just smile.
And let it be enough. For now.
Eventually, I help clean up the glitter massacre. Maya insists she can finish the rest, but I stay until the kitchen looks less like a crime scene. Lila’s busy watching a movie about a singing penguin, and I’m standing by the front door, boots on, scarf around my neck, trying not to make it weird.
“You’re good at this,” she says softly, hands folded in front of her.
